


Immortalis

by janto321 (FaceofMer)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Curses, First Kiss, Immortality, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-13
Updated: 2014-03-13
Packaged: 2018-01-15 13:19:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,964
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1306255
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FaceofMer/pseuds/janto321
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock learns that John Watson is not what he thinks he is.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Immortalis

**Author's Note:**

> This is extremly indebted to Stitchy and also to the Casca series of books.

The dead body was the least of their problems. The far bigger problem, in Sherlock’s eyes, was the way John climbed slowly to his feet, shaking off the wound that should have killed him. He pulled the knife from his heart and dropped it to the ground. With a sigh, he looked at the body. “I am sure you have questions.”

Sherlock blinked and stared at the man he knew as John Watson, soldier, doctor...his blogger and his friend. “A few, yes,” he said at last.

John nodded, as if to himself. “Better text Lestrade to clean up this mess. You and I should talk.”

For once in his life Sherlock was quiet as he followed John to the street. He’d known something was different about him; a more poetic person might have said he had an old soul. But this...had never crossed the realm of possibility. No ordinary human could have survived that, but as John adjusted his jacket, Sherlock could see he’d barely even bled.

John kept his silence as they rode back to Baker Street, staring out the window. It felt like he was pulling away from him. Sherlock wondered what else was going through his head. Perhaps unconsciously he rubbed his shoulder. Sherlock had caught a glimpse of the scar before. It was a bullet wound, not unusual for a soldier to carry. It had clearly been a nearly fatal wound, but up until now Sherlock had never considered it to be anything but a memory from the time before they came together. John caught his eyes in the reflection on the window and Sherlock pulled out his phone to text Lestrade.

They walked up the stairs to Baker Street as they had done a thousand times before. John went straight to the cabinet and poured them each a drink before settling into his chair, looking moodily at the fire. Whatever this was it certainly required more than tea.

The silence stretched out, but Sherlock could be patient when need be, so he waited, watching the way the firelight flickered across John’s face. Finally he spoke, still looking away. “What would you say if I told you that I was really born around 250BC?”

Sherlock let the silence wrap around them again as he tried to process it. _You look good for 2200 years old_ , he thought. He decided to test the claim and talk in Latin. “Te quoque videre nam ducentos viginti,” he said aloud.

John turned and looked at him, eyes and hands steady. “Horrendum loquela tua manifestum est.”

“My accent is not terrible,” snorted Sherlock. He could see the honesty in John’s eyes. The old blue eyes that had always spoke of something he couldn’t name. He’d thought it was something from the battlefield, but perhaps the battlefield had been going on much longer than he had deduced.

John looked away and sipped his drink. “Normally when someone finds out the truth, I leave, make a new identity for myself.”

“But you came back here with me.” Sherlock was nearly trembling with curiosity. How did it work? Could he recover from any wound? What had brought John to this state?

“I did. Maybe I’m finally getting tired.” He sighed and leaned back in his chair, running a hand through his hair. “There’s one condition that will render me mortal, but I’ve long since lost track of it.”

Sherlock leaned forward, curiosity bright in his eyes. “What is it?”

John took another drink. “I should start at the beginning, don’t you think?”

“That is generally the best place to begin, yes.” Sherlock steepled his fingers under his chin, watching John, his drink untouched.

"I was born in Antioch," John started, turning his glass in his fingers. "My father had been a soldier, but by the time I was born he was invalided home. When I was old enough I became a soldier too."

“What was your name?” asked Sherlock.

“Iohannes. I’ve always been some form of John. I wasn’t anything important, just an average foot soldier. I did my job well. Then came the curse.”

“A curse? That hardly seems possible.” Sherlock watched him closely.

John gave a bitter, brittle smile. “You just saw me pull a knife from my heart.”

Sherlock opened his mouth and closed it. Hard to deny the evidence of his senses. “You have no mark from the knife?”

Watching Sherlock, John unbuttoned his shirt and pulled up his undershirt. His chest was the same as ever, dusted by light hair and unmarked save the scar on his shoulder. “What about your scar, then?”

“It’s actually from a spear. It’s changed over time, I suppose to disguise itself. If I still had a spear scar it would stand out. It’s the mark of my curse.”

Worrying his lower lip in his teeth, Sherlock finally sat back and took a drink. “So tell me about this curse, then.”

John finished his drink and got up to pour another one. "My regiment took part in a battle that became a massacre. I could say I was just doing my job as a soldier, but I've had a few thousand years to think about it." His hand clenched and unclenched. "After it was over we went back to our camp. I had sentry duty." He paced in front of the fireplace."I thought we'd taken care of the locals and I suppose I let my guard down. I was surprised and captured."

Sherlock stayed silent when John glanced at him, hoping to encourage him to keep going.

Letting out a breath, John continued. "They drugged me and took me to a ruined temple. I figured they were going to sacrifice me." His eyes closed as he remembered. "They speared me to their altar. I felt my life leaving my body. I couldn't understand their words, but I could tell it was some sort of ritual. Things went dark. Then, to my shock, I woke up in the ruins. It was daylight, my shoulder ached, but I wasn't alone."

Leaning forward, Sherlock watched his face. John must have felt it because he opened his eyes and looked at him. "They'd left a young woman who spoke Latin. She told me I was cursed for what had been done to their people. _Immortalis_. I would be immortal until the number of lives I saved was equal to the lives my regiment took, as well as those claimed by my own hand."

"So you became a doctor." Sherlock leaned back again.

"Eventually. I was a soldier first. I went back to my regiment. I realized it wasn't a trick when I took a sword to my throat two months later. It healed right up and gave me a chance to kill the surprised barbarian I was fighting."

"How many lives...?" Sherlock sipped his own drink, trying to reconcile everything.

"I don't know," John's voice was quiet. "There was no record of the massacre and I've been in a lot of wars since then. Always drawn into them, it seems."

"You do tend to like the blood pumping in your veins," observed Sherlock. He looked up at him, smile twitching on his face. "You have saved my life countless times already. Surely that must count in your favor."

John put down his drink and stepped between Sherlock's knees, hands on the arms of his chair as he leaned into his space. "And you jumped off a building to save my life. You _idiot_."

There was a heartbeat while Sherlock looked into John's eyes. Then John's lips were on his. Electricity sparked through him as if a circuit had been completed. He moaned into the kiss, grabbing John's arms, reveling in the taste of him.

John finally pulled back and threw himself into his chair, taking a long pull of his drink. "I should leave," he muttered to himself.

"But you don't want to." Sherlock licked his lips. He stood and crossed the chasm between them, depositing himself on John's lap.

Sighing, John wrapped his arms around Sherlock's waist and held him against his chest. "No. I don't want to leave you or lose you," his words were muffled by the fabric of Sherlock's clothes. "That's why I was still here when you came back. I hoped perhaps you weren't dead. Turned out I was right."

Sherlock raised John's chin and kissed him tenderly.  "I will do all I can to help you."

**

Things continued as they had, for the most part, though now that Sherlock knew John's secret he observed things he hadn't before. Like the way John carried himself in dangerous situations and the way he shrunk himself to blend into the city. John had always been a study in contradictions, but now they made a bit more sense.

Things changed behind the doors of Baker Street as well. It quickly grew normal to wake up with John in his bed, and he found they both slept better. Two thousand years of experience made John better at other things too.

Late the following spring they met with Mycroft in an abandoned old building. John wandered around a bit while the brothers talked, only half listening.

The glint of something shiny caught John's eye. Taking a breath he moved cautiously towards it, taking a circuitous route. There, a snipers nest, someone laying prone, finger on the trigger, looking down on the Holmeses.

John moved fast and nearly silently, kicking the sniper in the ribs. The person grunted in surprise, bringing up a knife and kicking at John. He stepped back, giving her a chance to roll to her feet. He charged at her, getting a hold of her wrist and forcing her to drop it. She brought a knee to his groin, dropping him with a grunt. There was the sound of a gun cocking. John smiled as he looked up at her.

Footsteps told them Sherlock and Mycroft had heard the fighting. "One more step and I shoot him!" She called, taking her eyes off John for a moment.

It was all the opening he needed, grabbing her legs and sending her crashing onto her back. They both scrambled for the gun. John cried out as fire tore into his leg, but he managed to pin her as the others arrived.

"John!" There was panic in Sherlock’s eyes.

"Fine," grunted John as Mycroft pulled out a pair of handcuffs and took her from John. He tried to stand and sank back to the ground, frowning. "That's a lot of blood."

Sherlock pulled off his scarf and wrapped it around the wound, applying pressure. "We'll get an ambulance."

"Usually starts healing by now." John lay back, light-headed.

"Stay with me, John. You saved a life today. Maybe..."

"Never gonna happen," John slurred.

"Already has," Sherlock said with certainty.

John started to respond, but blackness claimed him instead.

**

Slowly John came awake. A hospital. He opened his eyes and looked down, moving the blankets to see his leg. Well that would scar. His heart sped up. Was it possible?

The door opened and Sherlock stepped inside. He crossed to John's side and took his hand. "You lost a lot of blood, but you will be discharged soon. Apparently the sniper was after Mycroft."

John gave a ghost of a smile. "Saved a life."

Sherlock nodded and swallowed. "What happens to you now?"

"I get to live, I guess. Have to be a bit more cautious though." John gave him a smile. "I get to grow old with you."

"You better, John Watson. I expect a good sixty years of you by my side. At least."

"I'll do my best." John pulled him down for a kiss, breathing his air, for the first time in a very long time, tasting hope.

**Author's Note:**

> You can find me at [merindab.tumblr.com.](http://merindab.tumblr.com/)


End file.
